


better an ugly face than an ugly mind

by unpeumacabre (kitcatkandy)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (that's also an innuendo), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Thorin Oakenshield, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Thorin, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is an Idiot, bofur/nori hinted at, obligatory public bathing scene, some sword innuendoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitcatkandy/pseuds/unpeumacabre
Summary: "What an absurdly ugly little creature,Thorin thought, when first he laid eyes on Master Bilbo Baggins."ie the one where thorin thinks bilbo is ugly, bilbo thinks thorin is quite possibly the handsomest thing he's ever seen, but by dwarven standards, thorin is positively hideous (and he knows it too). but they both know looks aren't everything, so they fall in love. happy ending ensues.





	better an ugly face than an ugly mind

**Author's Note:**

> this is quite possibly the first and last non-explicit fic i'll ever write. this is premised on the fact that dwarrows and hobbits are different species altogether, so the concept of 'handsomeness' and 'ugliness', i would assume, like each culture's customs, would be vastly different. esp since bilbo looks so different from every dwarf ever seen. so i'd find it only logical that it's far from 'love at first sight' for thorin...

_What an absurdly ugly little creature,_ Thorin thought, when first he laid eyes on Master Bilbo Baggins.

Although Ered Luin was in close proximity to the Shire, Thorin himself had had little to do with its curious inhabitants. Trade with the halflings had been a matter handled mostly by Balin and the other advisors of Thorin’s Halls. Furthermore, the complete lack of interest on the halflings’ part regarding weapons and gemstones - the chief export of the Ered Luin settlement - meant that the dwarrows’ interactions with the halflings were few and far between. 

This meant that it was the first time he’d had the chance of scrutinising a halfling up close - and, in his opinion, the halfling was sorely lacking in every way. Beardless, bootless, and with that horrendously-bright patchwork dressing gown, Master Baggins was truly a preposterously facetious sight. As Thorin stood in the doorway of the hobbit’s hole, hunching slightly to keep his head from brushing the top of the doorway, he cast his eyes over the halfling contemptuously. There was little indication of any muscle whatsoever on his portly body, and his clothes stretched casually over a plump and obviously well-loved stomach. 

While dwarrows themselves did value a broad, thick waist, and scoffed at thinness - too like to the stretched out, twiggy bodies of those blasted tree-shaggers - the halfling’s plump body was clearly unsuited to the rigours that their journey would demand. Coupled with his bare, beardless face, and the outrageously-short curls cropped close to the lines of his face, Thorin considered the halfling rather ugly indeed. 

But then again, Thorin knew that he himself was hardly the epitome of dwarven beauty either, so looks were of little matter to him. Especially since his was a quest to reclaim a mountain, and not to surround himself with specimens of beauty. Having the Ri brothers on the quest was enough - having further beauteous figures on the quest would likely draw too much unwelcome attention from unsavoury quarters. 

Rather, over the course of the dinner, Thorin found himself focusing not on the halfling’s unusual ugliness, but on his complete lack of qualifiable skills and the fortitude needed to partake in an adventure. Clearly, he thought disdainfully, Tharkûn had erred in his estimation of the halfling, and they would have to make do with thirteen to carry out their expedition.

When they left the hobbit’s hole, Master Baggins having slipped into deep slumber sometime between the third and fourth stanza of _The_ _Song of Durin,_ Thorin’s sister-sons slipped easily into step beside him.

“What did you think of the hobbit?” Fíli asked, his eyes bright with mischief. “A curious creature, is he not?”

“What he lacks on his chin he more than makes up for on his feet!” crowed Kíli. “Did you see his feet? So disproportionately big and hairy as to be absolutely adorable!”

Tired of their inane words, and already heavily weighed down by the refusal of his kin to aid their quest, Thorin scowled and snapped, “An uncommonly unsightly creature is Master Baggins, _I_ thought. And so clearly unsuited to our quest as to be absurd.” He punctuated the last few words with an glare at Tharkûn, who just puffed at his pipe with that disarming twinkle in his eye.

“He was odd-looking, that’s for sure,” agreed Kíli, “but adorable nonetheless. Did you notice how he wrinkled his nose when he was annoyed with us throwing the dishes around? He reminds me of that bunny Fee used to play with when he was supposed to be doing his lessons - oops!” Fíli tackled him and the two of them fell to the ground, tussling. Thorin sighed and bent over, gripping a ear in each hand in a practised motion. “Behave,” he said sternly, and that was the end of that. 

*

It was an immense surprise to Thorin, and likely the rest of the company, when Master Baggins turned up the next morning, running as if his life depended on it, and brandishing the signed contract in one hand. Of course Thorin had done nothing as undignified as _betting_ on the outcome of the halfling’s decision (but privately he thanked Mahal that he had abstained, because he would have lost quite a large sum of coin on the outcome). 

It became a rather consistent pattern, Master Baggins surprising him. His bravery in the face of the mountain trolls, the orcs and wargs, and his unexpected escape from Goblintown without a scratch, had completely flummoxed Thorin. Could he truly have made such an error in his initial judgement of the halfling, that he had not seen the core of courage that existed in Master Baggins’ heart?

Things came to a head after the incidents that led to their rescue by the eagles. Upon waking - and being thoroughly disoriented by the utter closeness of Tharkûn’s wrinkly face to his - Thorin’s immediate thought had been for the hobbit. His last memory of the battle with Azog had been of an orc-axe lifting high in the air, coming down with deadly force, and then of that portly, miniscule body hurling itself wholeheartedly at the orc who would have been Thorin’s end. If the halfling had perished because of Thorin’s idiocy - if he had paid the price for Thorin’s pride - it shocked him how fierce the wave of anger and self-loathing that hit him upon that thought was. Clearly it was as he had earlier suspected: that he had severely underestimated the calibre of Master Bilbo Baggins.

“The halfling?” he asked, urgently. 

Tharkûn smiled. “It’s alright,” he said, and his voice thrummed with relief. “Bilbo is here.”

Thorin struggled to his feet, impatiently pushing aside Fíli and Kíli’s hands as they tried to hold him down. There were spots at the edge of his vision, and he could feel the telltale agony in his chest that told him of more than one broken rib, but in his mind there was only one goal - to look upon the halfling with his own eyes, and assure himself that the wizard spoke true.

Master Baggins did indeed stand in front of him, looking little the worse for wear apart from a scuff on his cheek and the dirt staining the burgundy waistcoat. His smile was one of relief, and it dimly crossed Thorin’s mind that his bright eyes were of a lovely brown shade that Thorin had failed to notice in his previous disdain of the burglar.

But at the moment, Thorin could feel nothing but the swell of emotion in his chest. He was hardly aware of the words that spilled from his lips, hardly aware of how callous and angered the words sounded, the end of his tirade already clear in his mind, but as he uttered “ _I have never been so wrong in all my life”,_ he did the only thing he could do - he enveloped the burglar in his arms.

Vaguely he noted the rest of his Company cheering in the background, but their voices sounded muted, as if passing through a thick veil. Thorin could concentrate only on the hobbit’s arms hesitantly lifting to wrap around his shoulders, could feel only his soft breaths on the side of Thorin’s neck. He was strangely soft, and the feeling of pressing him into Thorin’s chest was oddly comforting. In his hair Thorin could smell smoke and leaves, and the faint scent of flowers, likely from the last time they had bathed, in Rivendell. It was with great reluctance that finally he pulled himself away from the hobbit’s embrace, and it was only the nervous titters from the Company behind him that forced him to do so at last.

Gripping Master Baggins’ shoulders tightly in his arms, Thorin smiled at him, feeling the long-unused muscles of his face twinge. Never before had he seen such a radiant and beautiful sight, even if it was framed not by a thick beard, as Thorin was used to, or suffused with the ruddy colour that painted many a dwarrow’s cheeks. Indeed, the burglar fairly glowed, against the backdrop of the sunrise, with Erebor rising out of the horizon behind his back.

With the warmth of Master Baggins’ skin under his hands, and the Lonely Mountain - _their home -_ in his sight, Thorin was in a very, very good mood indeed.

*

“Well, there’s always the Ri brothers…”

Thorin started as the sound of voices came around the corner, passing quite close to the rock beside which he had chosen to smoke his pipe. He could recognise the good-natured, reedy voice of Bofur speaking to a companion, and was about to make himself known so that he could leave the two alone to their conversation when abruptly he realised to whom Bofur was speaking. The sharp cadence of Master Baggins could hardly be mistaken for that of another, after all.

Later, when he thought back on this encounter, Thorin wouldn’t be able to explain why he hadn’t just revealed himself and left promptly, instead of intruding on what was clearly a private conference, but intrude he did, and quite without hesitation. Something about the burglar just called to him, and compelled him to remain hidden behind the rock that conveniently hid him from the two companions.

“What _about_ the Ri brothers?” the burglar asked, with that quirk in his voice that indicated he was cocking his head with curiosity. 

“They’re absolutely gorgeous, aren’t they?” Bofur said, his tone wistful. “Dori’s got that wonderful silver hair, and he braids it so beautifully too. Ori’s got his mother’s looks, and she was a right beauty, she was. And Nori… oh, Nori. I could go on about his hair and his lovely eyebrows for days. Rest of the Company’s a little shabbier-lookin’, if you take my meaning.”

Master Baggins coughed. “Ah… except for Thorin, right?” he asked, and Thorin started at the mention of his name.

There was a long pause, then Bofur’s voice came again, this time more hesitant and lacking its usual alacrity. “Thorin… I don’t rightly know what you mean by that, Bilbo,” he murmured, the words almost indistinct, and Thorin felt a brief surge of jealousy thrum through him as he realised that Bofur was clearly intimate enough with the burglar to address him by his first name.

“Well, Thorin’s quite good-looking too, isn’t he?” Master Baggins said, his voice thoughtful. “And his royal blood… I imagine he’s quite the catch among your people.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Bofur in reply, his voice hushed. “Good-looking? Thorin? Why, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him called that, I reckon. And his status as Durin’s blood doesn’t do him any good nowadays, what with the whole business with Smaug, and all. Being a crownless king doesn’t bring the dwarrows and dwarrowdams swarmin’ to him, you know.”

“Thorin, ugly?” the hobbit laughed, and he sounded genuinely confused. “I thought him rather a stately figure, myself - that is to say, not that I was looking - “ A flustered edge entered his voice, but Bofur’s voice was kind when he replied.

“Oh… I’d never considered how different a hobbit might see things. He’s got a royal bearing, you’ve got to give him that... and he could inspire any dwarf to follow him to the edge of the earth, aye. But his features are too sharp, y’see, with the Durin nose and all, more like a Man than a good, round-faced dwarf. He’s far too thin for many dams’ tastes, although Durin’s folk are all on the skinny side nowadays, what with the nomadic lifestyle and all. And that shorn beard doesn’t do him any favours. We dwarrows often judge a dwarf by the beauty and length of his beard, as you know.

‘When Thorin sheared it in honour of the dwarrows who fell when Erebor was taken… well, there were many who said it was the right thing to do, it’s true, but there were just as many idiots who said it was the only thing he could have done to render himself even more hideous.”

Thorin took a long pull of his pipe as he listened to Bofur’s monologue. The sentiments expressed were common ones, whispered behind pillars in the halls of Ered Luin by dwarrows unknowing of his proximity. He’d accepted long ago that he’d never be a great beauty like Frerin was - _had been,_ he had to remind himself, and pretended that the thought didn’t still bring the sting of tears to his eyes _-_ and Dís had done well enough for herself, hadn’t she, looking the way she did? Dwarrows should be judged on their character, and not their looks, he opined. He had done his best by his people, and that was all the legacy he wished to leave. Thoughts of romance had hardly crossed his mind, after all, even before Erebor had fallen, so he saw no reason to brood over his lack of attractiveness.

So Bofur’s words failed to surprise him, but Master Baggins’ response did.

“But… that’s absurd,” exclaimed Master Baggins in a louder voice, with unexpected anger. “He’s their king! They shouldn’t say such things about him. And after he saved his people, too.”

Bofur gave a wry chuckle, and there was a soft thud, as if he had lain back on the grass of their little hillock. “That’s true. Looks don’t matter to our Company, as well they shouldn’t, to any dwarrow worth his salt. I mean, look at me, looking the way I do. I can’t talk, can I?”

“I think you look very handsome!” the hobbit said indignantly. “Your moustache is a work of art. Why, I remember old cousin Took trying to grow a moustache just like yours, and even after twenty years he’s hardly come close to a moustache even half the calibre of yours!”

Bofur’s laugh had a melancholy edge to it, and Thorin heard the rhythmic scraping noises that indicated he had returned to the woodcarving that was a pastime of his, on their journey. “Be that as it may, I’m no great beauty among the dwarrows, and less so Bifur and Bombur and the rest of the dwarrows. Bombur’s just lucky he found his One in a dwarrowdam with her stomach larger than her eyes!”

Deciding he’d heard enough, Thorin stood and slipped away. The last he heard of the conversation was the hobbit’s stubborn voice, exclaiming heatedly: “Love is about more than just looks, anyway! And, by the way, _I_ think Thorin looks very nice indeed…”

*

It was difficult getting used to living on the road again, after the luxuries afforded by their brief respite at Beorn’s home, but eventually they settled back into the rhythm of insufficient meals and hurried baths taken from their waterskins and bathing cloths. When they found the river running through the woods, slow-running and yet wide enough to afford multiple bathers, Thorin thanked Mahal for his blessing, and followed the rest of the Company into the river.

Fíli and Kíli were far less discreet, of course, and Thorin smiled indulgently at their youthful exuberance. Stripping off their garments and diving into the river with loud whoops of excitement, the rest of the Company were soon splashed sodding wet, if they hadn’t already taken off their clothes and followed suit into the river. The wizard was nowhere to be seen, having wandered off to take a smoke and do who knew what wizards did in their private moments.

Thorin pulled off his fur coat, armor and underthings, folding and placing them neatly on a stone shelf nearby. Despite his apparel having previously been stained by blood and other bodily fluids from their clashes with the orc-kind, the sheep of Beorn’s house had diligently washed out the stains from his beloved furs and underthings. A good thing seeing as how he had brought few clothes on this journey, and the furs had been dearly bought from men in Bree. 

By the time he was finished and joined the rest of the dwarrows in the river, the Company were bathing and frolicking in earnest, with Kíli fighting to hold his brother’s head under the water and getting splashed violently for his efforts. Dori was studiously scrubbing through Ori’s hair to remove the flecks of dirt from their journey, Bofur singing a bawdy bar ditty as he scrubbed at his underarms, and Dwalin bathing himself with military speed and precision. The sounds of their antics filled Thorin with a raw, aching contentment. Seeing the members of his Company - who had grown greatly dear to him, over the course of their journey - so gay and spirited reminded him of the great love he bore his people, and the melancholy thought that it would take a great deal of luck for all members of the expedition to survive their mission to the mountain.

He undid his braids and soaked them in the river water, which ran clear and cold against his bare skin. Carefully, he removed the beads braided into his hair, and placed them on the grassy banks of the river. Conscious of time running swiftly past them, he did not take his usual luxuries, cursorily washing away the grime and sweat from his hair and skin, cleaning his unmentionables, and washing out the various scratches and abrasions from their travels. 

Only when he heard Fíli and Kíli’s raised voices did he look up, and return his attention to his companions. He was startled when he realised that the burglar was as yet still clothed, and further, that his sister-sons had seized each of the hobbit’s arms, and were steadily dragging him into the water.

“Three months we have journeyed with you,” cried Kíli, “and yet we know nothing of hobbit biology!”

“Seeing as you’re our brother-in-arms, it’s a crying shame, Mister Boggins,” added Fíli, his voice quieter, yet no less mischievous. 

“Show us your hobbit sword, eh, lad?” called Nori.

“Aye, and he’s not talking about your elvish letter opener either,” added Bofur, triggering a spate of sniggers from the rest of the Company.

While Thorin recognised that his dwarrows meant no harm, and were merely teasing Master Baggins in their good-natured, ribald way, he did not miss how the hobbit’s face was flushed with embarrassment, and his brows descending thunderously down over his eyes. Thorin suddenly recalled that, each time they had bathed, the burglar had kept himself apart, preferring to conduct his ablutions with strict privacy. Furthermore, in contrast to the large communal baths of Erebor and Ered Luin, hobbits clearly did not share baths, as evidenced by the single bathtub Thorin had observed in Bag End. It was yet another cultural difference, and an example of the absurd customs the hobbits referred to as respectability, but Master Baggins was obviously uncomfortable with the notion of bathing in public even with his dwarrow friends - and if only the rest of the Company could only pull their heads out of their arses and notice that as well!

The decision to take action was an easy one. Master Baggins had a fearsome temper when roused. Additionally, Thorin had no wish for any of his Company to embarrass the hobbit in such a manner, not when he deserved respect from every single one of them. He heaved himself out of the water where he had been seated, and strode to the river bank where Fíli and Kíli had almost managed to drag the hobbit into the water.

“ _Enough_ ,” Thorin rumbled, and that was sufficient to freeze the three of them, dwarrows and hobbit alike, where they stood. 

Casting a fierce glare on his nephews, Thorin continued, “If you _must_ insist on comporting yourself like insolent little beardlings, and not like the heirs of Durin that you are, you may continue to do so, but leave Master Baggins out of it. He does not want any part in your games.”

There was a shocked silence for a few moments. Thorin regarded Kíli, and especially Fíli, with a stern look in his eyes. Kíli he could excuse, for his youth, but Fíli, as the direct heir to the throne… He ought to know better, and he knew it, too.

Then the two released Master Baggins’ arms as if they had been scalded. Master Baggins wobbled a bit, as if put off balance by the sudden loss of support from the two arms pulling him towards the river, then he righted himself. When Thorin was sure he was steady on his feet, he turned to his sister-sons with one eyebrow raised.

After a few beats of further silence: 

“Sorry Mister Boggins,” they chorused, their eyes kept low in shame.

Only then did Thorin dismiss them, clapping his hands on their shoulders as they returned to the river, to show he forgave them and granted them permission to return to their earlier exuberances. It was a significantly dourer pair of brothers who returned to the water and resumed their ablutions, and a significantly quieter Company of dwarrows who continued with their washing up.

Thorin returned his attention to the hobbit, stepping closer so that his words might not be heard by the others of the Company. The water lapped at his ankles as he approached the hobbit, and he ignored the cold breeze as it bit at his naked skin. 

The burglar seemed to have some trouble meeting his eyes, and Thorin noted that there was a rather comely flush painting his cheeks and his neck. Why, without a beard in the way, it was easy to see how the hobbit’s blush extended all the way down to his chest! One advantage, Thorin supposed, of being beardless, and he had to admit, it _was_ a rather attractive flush, after all.

“They meant no offence,” he rumbled, once he was close enough to the burglar for his words to pass unheard. Master Baggins took what seemed like an involuntary step back, but Thorin dismissed his discomfort. “All of them. They meant only to tease you.”

“I know that,” the hobbit muttered, ducking his head, rubbing nervously at the back of his head. Thorin suddenly noticed that the splashes from the other dwarrows had rendered his trousers sopping wet. The brown curls atop his large feet were matted from dirt and grime, and there were twigs in his hair.

“Come,” Thorin said gruffly. Master Baggins’ head whipped up, his eyes startled. Thorin beckoned to him, nodding towards a spot in the river conveniently shielded from the rest by a large rock formation rising out of the riverbed. “You may bathe in private there.”

“Oh. Thanks.” The hobbit shook his head vigorously and hurried off behind the rock to bathe. Thorin watched him until he was sure that there was no danger threatening the burglar, before he returned to his spot to bathe and observe the rest of his dwarrows, who had returned to their previous shenanigans. Fíli and Kíli had started a water battle with Nori and Bofur, and were attempting to drag Ori into their mischiefs.

Thorin settled back into his spot and resumed his washing up, glad that he had not permanently extinguished the high spirits of his nephews. While they were often excessively irrepressible, and often in a way that did not befit their status as heirs of Durin’s line, he could not begrudge them their youthful ebullience and mischief, not when they had had hard lives spent homeless and on the road. There would be time plenty enough for them to learn courtly manners and how to comport themselves in a royal setting, when… _if_ … they reclaimed Erebor, in the end.

Now, as for Master Baggins… Thorin concealed a fond smile in his beard. It seemed like the hobbit had lost his buttons some time during their adventure. His lovely burgundy waistcoat had gaped open to reveal how his shirt had curved around the hobbit’s snug, rounded stomach, and Thorin could not help but wonder…

*

That night the Company ate well, for Beorn had provided them with sufficient bread and salted meats to last them at least till they reached the Mirkwood. In fact, the dwarrows were clearly in a good mood, with Bofur pulling out his clarinet to start the beginning chords of _A Merry Inn_. Dwalin whipped out his violin, Bombur his drums, and the rest quickly followed suit. 

Thorin sat beside the fire, a little removed from the rest, smiling at their merry voices raised in song and the stamping of their feet. He idly sharpened Orcrist against his whetstone, his fingers running absently over the pommel of the sword.

“You’re not joining in?” said Master Baggins suddenly beside him, and Thorin startled. He coughed to cover his brief loss of composure, looking at the burglar from under furrowed brows as Master Baggins settled comfortably down next to him, sitting rather closer than Thorin would have expected.

The hobbit looked expectantly at him, then Thorin realised he’d been asked a question. He coughed again, and answered. “No,” he said, voice husky, “I was sharpening my sword.” 

“That’s a shame,” Master Baggins said, smiling a rather sweet smile. “I did enjoy when you sang that lovely song in Bag End. If you’ll teach me how to clean your sword, I’ll do it while you join in the music.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Thorin bit his lip. He cast his eyes over the hobbit. Master Baggins _had_ displayed the bravery sought as an attractive virtue by dwarrows, having saved Thorin’s life once already. And Thorin had to admit, his opinion of the hobbit’s looks had changed over the course of the journey. He did have rather a fetching mouth, plump lips and all. And his eyes were warm, and brown, and twinkling with a light of mischief. And that strangely-beardless face, rendering him a youthful face surpassing even that of a beardling of five years, had a curious appeal. Without the beard, indeed, it was easy to observe that the hobbit’s skin was soft and most comely…

But what was he _thinking_? It was hardly a good time to engage in a courtship, not when the end of their quest was marked with such danger! Indeed, Thorin marvelled the gall of the halfling, to suggest such a thing.

“You are most attractive, Master Baggins,” Thorin said stiffly in answer. “But I am afraid that there will be no courtship for me, not until Erebor is reclaimed at least. I beg your pardon.”

The hobbit gaped at him, not unattractively, Thorin thought to himself. Then he snapped his mouth shut, and started to laugh.

“Courtship? You ridiculous dwarf!” he said, grinning. “I suppose it’s some dwarven custom that I’ve overlooked, mm? I meant nothing of the sort. I simply wanted to hear your voice join in the singing, and thought to relieve you of your duty, that you might indulge a foolish old hobbit in his request.”

“Ah,” Thorin said eloquently. Then he flushed, thankful at least that his beard covered the blush that he knew unattractively mottled his skin. 

Without waiting further, Master Baggins gestured at Orcrist, and wordlessly Thorin handed over his whetstone and the elven sword. He picked up the skill fairly quickly, and after a few minutes he was confidently sharpening the blade against the whetstone with slow, steady strokes. 

“By the way,” the hobbit said, and his voice was suddenly soft, unsure. “You may call me Bilbo. That’s my name, after all. No need to stand on ceremony, not when we’ve saved each others’ lives a few times already.”

Thorin nodded, struck dumb. It seemed to him strange that Bilbo could, with so few words, so easily disarm him. While he had never been overly voluble a speaker, it was infrequent that he found himself at a loss for words, and he marvelled at how effortlessly the burglar could cause the words to be stuck in his throat.

“Bilbo,” he said, trying the word out on his tongue. The hobbit paused in his sharpening, and smiled at him. Thorin hesitated, then returned his smile. “You may call me Thorin as well, Master Burglar. You are right. It is foolish to care for the rules of propriety when we have been through so much together.”

If anything, his words made Bilbo’s smile grow even larger and more blinding. It fairly lit up his face, and again Thorin noted that the hobbit had a lovely mouth. He wondered what it would be like to feel…

Well. It was obvious Thorin no longer thought the hobbit as ugly as he had initially thought. 

“I didn’t thank you earlier,” Bilbo continued babbling on. “It’s remarkably different, hobbit and dwarf culture, isn’t it? If only Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had come. Ha! I’d have liked to see the look on her face when she saw the thirteen of you bathing in the stream, stark naked as the day you were born. It’d have given her a right shock. Maybe she’d have keeled over straight and saved the rest of us much grief!”

Thorin grunted, unsure what to say in reply. He knew nothing of this Lobelia the hobbit spoke of. She sounded like a right harridan, indeed, if the look on Bilbo’s face as he spoke of her said anything.

“And Fíli! and Kíli! They’re good boys, but sometimes they enrage me,” Bilbo huffed. “I saw far too much of their dwarf long-swords this afternoon, if you take my meaning, and after I’d been trying my best to avoid an eyeful this whole time!”

The unexpected crudity from the hobbit startled a laugh out of Thorin, and he pressed his hand to his mouth to avoid the sound of his laughter attracted unwanted attention from the rest of the Company. Bilbo cast him a quick look, the edges of his mouth quirking upwards as if pleased at having stolen a laugh from Thorin. Then his mouth twisted in a pout, and he lifted a finger to waggle it reprovingly in Thorin’s direction.

“Now don’t you be going and thinking I’ve forgotten about what you promised!” he said, sternly. “You promised me a song if I sharpened your sword, didn’t you? Now get going. They’re expecting a good performance, you know.”

Thorin now became aware that the rest of the Company had finished their song, and were now looking expectantly at him and Bilbo, perched on their seats away from the fireside. At the hobbit’s words, Fíli and Kíli bobbed their heads vigorously, and the rest of the dwarrows began cheering.

It was difficult for Thorin to conceal his smile this time, but he rolled his eyes and stood up magnanimously. His harp was thrust into his hands by Dwalin, and he proceeded to give as a good a rendition of _The Lay of Ginna_ as he had in him. While his voice did not best fit the bawdy drinking songs appropriate for fireside revels, it was good enough, and the rest of the dwarrows raised their voices in accompaniment to the jaunty tune. Even Tharkûn was persuaded to do a little jig in honour of the ditty’s titular dwarrowdam, and they laughed uproariously at Bofur’s attempts to do an incongruous waltz with Nori. 

As Thorin glided his fingers across the strings of his harp, and basked in the heady contentment of his beloved dwarrows making merry around him, he looked up, and met the eyes of the burglar. Bilbo sat with Orcrist in his lap, his eyes fixed on Thorin, his fingers stilled from their task. As their gazes met, Bilbo started, and bent his attention to his duty once again. 

Thorin could not say what kept his eyes trained on the hobbit and his work. It was something about the way the hobbit’s fingers curled, strong and sure, about the handle of the blade, how his bared toes twitched and curled as they sought the warmth of the fire, how the unruly curls of his hair - as undwarvish as undwarvish could get! - brushed against the skin of his neck and curled temptingly around the pointed tip of his ear. It made such a homely, comforting picture, that Thorin felt something warm uncurl in his chest.

Bilbo lifted his eyes and met his gaze again, and this time their eyes held. Then he grinned, one of those disarmingly-endearing smiles of his. 

No, Thorin decided, Bilbo was very definitely _not_ ugly at all.

*

“You know,” Thorin said, as he lay on his back huffing and puffing from their exertions, while Bilbo ran his fingers carelessly through the thick curls on Thorin’s chest, “I really considered you quite uncommonly ugly when first we met.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up, and his fingers stilled in their actions. Thorin had a brief split-second to regret his words - he’d never been known for his tact, after all, something Dís had taken great pleasure in tormenting him about - when Bilbo let out a very undignified snort.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose,” Bilbo sniffed. “I’ll have you know I’m considered rather an attractive catch in the Shire.”

Thorin propped himself back up on his elbows, suddenly feeling the need to bare his feelings to the hobbit.

“You see, you’re rather odd-looking by dwarven standards,” he explained. “You don’t have a beard, you don’t wear boots, and you have a ridiculously flamboyant dress style. And I hadn’t had much experience with hobbits before I met you. I really was quite startled when first I beheld you.”

Bilbo laughed. It was a pleasant feeling, rather because he wiggled when he laughed, and it was doing rather gratifying things to certain parts of Thorin’s anatomy. Resolutely Thorin pushed down his baser desires and continued. “But, as I’m sure you know, I’m not the pinnacle of dwarven attractiveness myself - rather the opposite, in fact - and so I cast your hideousness from my mind. And I found you had other qualities I admired. Loyalty, a brave heart, and a willingness to place your trust in me. Even when I lost my mind to the gold-sickness…” Here he hesitated. The thought of that dark time would ever conjure a morass of feelings in him, mostly self-loathing at his idiocy, but the feeling of Bilbo’s fingers stroking comfortingly against the back of his hand brought him out of his self-reproach. 

“Even when I lost my mind to the gold-sickness, I never lost my heart. I loved you then, and I love you now still. And I suppose,” he sniffed mock-haughtily, “I’ve gotten used to your beardlessness and bootlessness and those horrendous things you call dressing gowns. In fact, I’d say I’ve grown rather fond of you. I think you rather comely, you know,” he added shyly, taking Bilbo’s hand in his and looking earnestly into his eyes, all teasing forgotten. 

Bilbo blinked up at him, his eyes wide, then he shook his head, although he couldn’t quite hide the smile that teased at his lips. “You ridiculous dwarf,” he said fondly. “How many times do I have to say you’re the most attractive dwarf I’ve ever met, for you to get it through your thick head? When first I saw you it gave me a shock, you know. I’d never thought I’d think a dwarf attractive, especially after the rest of your Company raided my pantries and messed about with my glory boxes and wiped their noses on my doilies. 

‘But then you banged on my door and came in with your furs and your braids and your lovely _nose_ and your blue eyes and… well, I could go on and on and on, but you get my meaning. Of course your manners were atrocious, but after a while I realised it’s just because you’re emotionally constipated and a little thick in the head. I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmured, and gestured for Thorin to come closer, “I think you’re _much much handsomer_ than any of the Ri brothers, I’ll tell you that.”

He scoffed. “Anyway, what do looks matter? You’re a good king, and a good husband, and that’s all I’ll ever hear from you on the matter. I tell you, I won’t accept any aspersions cast on the calibre of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under The Mountain! He’s rather a good friend of mine, you know.” Bilbo pressed his face close and rubbed their noses together. In such close proximity, Thorin could see the vague flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “ _I_ think you’re handsome, and that’s that. End of the story,” he huffed. 

A wave of tender, powerful love threatened to overwhelm Thorin’s heart, and in response, he lifted his hands to cradle Bilbo’s face. “You’re right,” he whispered. “I suppose we’ll just have to resign ourselves to the fact that I chose an uncommonly handsome hobbit, and you chose an uncommonly handsome dwarf. Although I’ll get a good laugh out of thinking how others might say we make an uncommonly ugly couple!”

Then Bilbo laughed. He threw his head back, and he laughed, and laughed, and laughed…

**Author's Note:**

> i have to admit... my portrayal of thorin and bilbo is a little different from most fics, but they're really complex characters. imo thorin isn't as distant and detached and violently possessive a character as he's commonly portrayed - he loves his dwarrows and those he trusts with great tenderness. he's actually a big fluffy teddy bear inside. and bilbo isn't a pushover. come on. just look at the scene where the dwarrows are raiding his pantry. he's just... excessively _polite_.
> 
> also, i have massively changed my writing style in the writing of this fic, and i have to say, i'm extremely pleased with the way it's turned out! although i am still, of course, **amenable to concrit**. a kudo or comment would be greatly appreciated <3 also, my [tumblr](https://unpeumacabre.tumblr.com)
> 
> other notes (chronological order):  
> (1) dwarrows was tolkien's preferred plural of dwarf.  
> (2) thorin, fili, and kili look so different from the other dwarrows and so like men that i'd assume they're seen as oddities and uncommonly ugly as well.  
> (3) the dwarrows bathe together and publicly (ie they're not shy about nudity): ref to the extended edition rivendell scene.  
> (4) you can't convince me the dwarrows didn't party at every opportunity they had - they're on a quest which might end in death, for heaven's sake! and they love to party! c'mon!  
> (5) somehow the idea of dwalin playing the violin (this is actual canon) cracks. me. up.  
> (6) some punctuation and grammar errors are intentional. tried to capture the oddities of hobbit and dwarf speech as I heard them in my head.  
> (7) if you watch hobbit:auj closely... you'll notice thorin is the only one who bangs on bilbo's door. everyone else very politely rings the bell. what a rude ass boi.


End file.
